Wednesday, January 2, 2008

Vomitus Maximus

Cora is a reflux baby. That's not so uncommon. What is uncommon is my husband's serious and deep seated hatred of vomit. This extends back as far as I've known him. He doesn't even like seeing someone throw up on TV or in the movies. If he sees someone throw up in person, he will likely join in. This is not a good trait to have if you have a baby who barfs often and without warning. At first he accepted it as a temporary (if disgusting) thing. It was even mildly amusing that everytime he seemed to be wearing something with his beloved Chief's team logo on it, she would inexplicably let loose all over it. No matter when she had eaten last. No matter how long she had been sitting calmly in daddy's arms.

After six months of constant unexpected "blessings" by Coco however, he became less tolerant and more and more, um, dissatisfied. The dealbreaker came when he was running late one morning and was wearing his brand new cashmere Banana Republic sweater. It was too tempting a scenario for the puke gods. She let him have it. I heard him swear all the way downstairs.

At first, I tried to be kind and understanding explaining that while I didn't love her puking all over my new Ann Taylor dress before I had even cut the tags off, it was not her fault and was in fact out of her control, so yelling was unfair to her and hurtful. I even went so far as to sweetly mention that it probably wasn't any fun for her either. I did my best to deliver this message in my sweetest June Cleaver voice while still conveying deep sympathy and understanding for my husband (never once betraying my feeling of "well that's why God made burp rags to wear over your shoulder dumb---"). Sure that I had imparted sage wisdom to my husband I assumed it was a momentary lapse of reason and that all would be right future forward. Whatever.

This morning as I was running amok in my usual "crap I'm already running five minutes late and I haven't even gotten out of the shower" ritual, I heard the familar "DAMNIT CORA WHAT THE F__K!" Ever heard the saying "if mama ain't happy, ain't nobody happy"? Mama wasn't happy. I went into Cora's room to see hubby holding her at arms length like a diseased banana while trying to grab for a burp cloth. Upon seeing me enter, he disgustedly said "She did it again!" As if she stayed awake most of the night plotting this nefarious little deed. Mama got unhappier. Whether it was a combination of running late on top of the haze of having actually caved and having drunk the "pink wine" that was in our fridge the night before, or whether I just woke up on the wrong side of sunshine, once Cora was safely playing in the other room I let hubby have it. I "explained" in no uncertain terms that this was not something she was doing on purpose, that seven-month-old babies can't do much of ANYthing on purpose, that he was the grown up and needed to start acting like it; that if he was so squeamish that a tablespoon of baby puke set him off then he needed to build a bridge and get over it. I told him that Cora was going to spit up. A lot. And often. So get right with it. Period. Paragraph. That is your only option. I then left the room in a very dramatic huff.

So, now with the benefit of time, caffeine and reflection, did I handle that as well as I could have? Um, no. But, did daddy having it coming? Probably. And, as far as Cora is concerned, it will keep coming. Ad infinitim, ad nauseum.

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